"Is that what I'm doing? Reducing you to a babbling idiot?"
"Among other things."
"What other things?"
The question is soft, almost casual, but there's an edge to it that makes my pulse race. He's not just making conversation. He genuinely wants to know what he's doing to me.
"I..." I start, then stop, because how do I explain that he makes me feel like a completely different person? That around him, I feel bold and reckless and hungry for things I can't even name?
"Tell me." he says, and it's not quite a command but it's close enough to make my breath catch.
"You make me feel..." I struggle for the right words, settling on honesty because it's gotten me this far. "Brave. Like I could be someone different than who I've always been."
"Who have you always been?"
"Safe. Predictable. The good girl who never takes risks or says inappropriate things on first dates." I laugh, but it sounds shaky even to my own ears. "Apparently, that's changing."
"Good."
"Good?"
"Safe and predictable are overrated." He leans forward, "I like this version of you better. The one who says what she's thinking, who isn't afraid to tell me what she wants."
"What makes you think I know what I want?"
"Because you're here. Because you said yes when I asked you to dinner, even though every instinct probably told you to run." His eyes never leave my face. "Because you're looking at me right now like you want to find out exactly how good I am in bed."
He's right, that's exactly how I'm looking at him, with a hunger I didn't even know I was capable of feeling. But hearing him say it out loud makes it real in a way that's both thrilling and terrifying.
"I don't know what's gotten into me," I whisper.
"Maybe you're just finally letting yourself be who you really are."
"And who am I, really?"
"A woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to go after it." He reaches across the table, his fingers finding mine again. "A woman who's tired of playing it safe."
Is that who I am? Is that who I've always been underneath the careful politeness and small-town expectations? The possibility is intoxicating, like being offered a glimpse of a different life entirely.
"What if I don't know how to be that person?" I ask.
"Then you learn." His thumb strokes across my knuckles. "But I don't think that's going to be a problem for you."
"Why not?"
"Because you've already started."
He's right. Sitting here, having this conversation, feeling this way… It's all completely outside my comfort zone. The old Christine would have deflected, changed the subject, hidden behind safe topics and well-thought boundaries. But this version of me, the one Marc seems to see so clearly, wants to lean into the discomfort and see where it leads.
"This is crazy," I say, but I don't pull my hand away from his.
"The best things usually are."
"Is that your philosophy? Embrace the crazy?"
"It is now." He smiles, and there's something almost boyish about it. "You're having a pretty significant effect on my worldview."
"Good effect or bad effect?"
